Writing is a mystery. Last night I discovered I'd written one of the plotlines into a dead end. It's no problem. I turned the damn thing around and went back the way I came, but then I went to bed with the question of where to take this thread from the intersection where I went wrong.
Sometimes, when I go to bed with a plot problem, I wake up with the answer.
But sadly, not this morning. I thought about nothing but this all through my walk with Duncan, my shower, and the commute into work. I think I've worked it through it, but I won't be sure until tonight, when I can attach the seat of my pants to the seat of my chair.
How do you work through missteps like this or do you, like Mozart, write it all dwn once as if you were merely a conduit from the gods?
My gods give me fuck all.
In related news, Ian Rankin is coming to town on Thursday and I'm going to see him. Anyone want me to pass along a howdy?
Here's a link to the interview.
That's it for today. No news of the strange, no politics, no opening up that dark basket of snakes that is my squiggly subconscious.
Something must be wrong.